Please?
by MLaw
Summary: A further glimpse into Illya's life in the orphanage. #10A in the Illya series. Now in a more Chronological order.


A young Illya Kuryakin slurped a mouthful of soup from his wooden bowl, pausing to dip a thick piece of stale black bread into the broth to soften it.

He'd been in this grim place only a few weeks, and though he'd been nursed back from starvation at the refugee camp in Kyiv, here he felt like he was starving to death all over again.

He glanced at the scrawny, brown-haired boy sitting next to him on the coarse wooden bench. He was so small and thin, looking up at him with darkened hollow eyes. They sat at one of many tables in the communal eating area in the Moskva orphanage they now called home.

Of course Illya felt sorry for him and handed him the rest of his bread, knowing hunger would still gnaw at him for his act his kindness.

The child took it from him hesitantly as no one had ever done such a thing for him here, and once he knew it was safe, he whispered his thanks, and greedily bit into the kind food offering.

Swallowing the rest of his broth; young Kuryakin stood carrying his wooden bowl with him, walking slowly to the table where the matron was doling out their rations

The smell of roasted chicken, herbs and potatoes wafted from the teachers table off to the side of the room and the scent of it made Illya's stomach rumble louder in protest.

He stole a glance at the them, and their fine table made of highly polished oak. The instructors were sitting comfortably on chairs, and not benches as the children did.

Illya recalled a scene from a book he'd read from his papa's library, one he was told was a banned book. He was never to take the copy of 'Oliver Twist' from the dacha, nor speak to anyone of it.

In the story, the hungry orphan boy Oliver had the boldness to ask for more food, and that inspired Illya to do the same, hoping against hope he wouldn't suffer the same consequences as young Oliver.

He stepped to serving the table, standing right in front of the matron, holding up his bowl.

Illya said only one word..." _Pozhaluysta_please?"_

She looked up at him with indifference; her round, fat cheeks flushed red from standing over the steaming pot of soup while her white babushka was stained and dirty as was her apron.

Illya half-expected to be cuffed on the head for his audacity, but somehow she looked right through him; ladling soup into his bowl, and handing him a piece of bread, not even recognizing he'd already been fed.

Not wanting to start trouble in case the other children might see him with a second portion; Illya made himself invisible, as his father had told him to do with his dying breath, and disappeared into a small alcove. There he slid down against the wall, sitting there on the floor and wolfing down his feast.

He dared not try it again, lest he be caught, but at least this time it worked and he wouldn't go to bed as hungry as usual.

" _Spasibo, Oliver pokazal mne vashu smelostʹ_thank you Oliver for showing me how to be bold,_ " he whispered as he swallowed the last of his soup. The bread he would save for tomorrow, as he could soften it with his tea.

He shoved the extra morsel inside his jacket and returned to his table, happy he hadn't been caught and waited silently with the other children to be released while the teachers dawdled over their meal.

Some of the children would be lucky enough be ordered to clear the teacher's table once they departed and the leftovers on the plates would be secreted into pockets by them.

They dared not eat it in front of anyone as sometimes they'd be accosted by the bullies and the food would be stolen.

Illya watched as the plates were taken away, yet an uneaten potato had fallen from one and rolled to the floor. Apparently he was the only one who saw it drop.

He rose from the bench, walking quickly to it and plucked it out of the shadows from under the table and pocketed it as a prized possession.

He would feast on it and the bread later, hidden away from prying eyes.

For once it was his lucky day, though he never thought of himself as lucky, if anything he felt guilty.

He'd survived the streets of Kyiv and the death camp, but felt remorse that he was the one who lived while his family and friends had not.

He was told he was fortunate to be alive and that the State had taken him in to be his new family. Though the conditions here at the orphanage were deplorable, he was told he should be grateful. It was his responsibility to show his gratitude and be a good citizen by serving the Soviet Union.

He was a member of the downtrodden masses, but he never understood that until now. As he got older he would become member of the collective and work to serve the country, whatever that meant?

Illya found it hard to accept, as one who'd lost everyone and everything that meant something to him through such violent means. He didn't readily accept such propaganda.

He knew he wasn't alone in his misery, but that was cold comfort to a little boy feeling so very alone, yet surrounded by other children in the same lot as was he.

There were times that he found himself sinking into a deep melancholia, and for that reason Illya would keep to himself.

He was small for his age, and very skinny and the older children bullied him. They were the ones who controlled things, and took things from the younger ones.

As the years passed Illya learned to be crafty and manipulative; thievery and other bad habits had him well on a path to a life of crime when he met someone who turned his way of thinking around, a girl named Natasha Asimov.

It was because if her he chose a better direction and mended his corrupt ways. For a brief time he found friendship and love with her, and that would carry him through his life for now...


End file.
